He Who Is Beloved
by Harlequin Sequins
Summary: Never, in all of her years, has she been able to summon enough courage to confess how earnestly she loves him. Loki/Sigyn.


Author's notes: I know I already have a Loki/Jane story out, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head. It kept nagging at me. Obviously I took some artistic liberties here, but this is just a sort of teaser, a prologue, and more will be explained later. I wish to humanize Sigyn, make her relatable in some way, and have always liked her very much for her strength and wisdom and loyalty. Of course, the course of the story takes place before the events of the movie, and therefore this is sort of a prequel. I'd really appreciate some feedback...anything - if you like the idea, if you hate it, etc. Anything would be welcomed! Anyway, enjoy. :)

**Edit - For some reason, I had previously thought it was Freyja who was the wife of Loki when, in fact, some recent research tells me it was Sigyn. Silly mistake of mine. Still, so little is known about Sigyn, and it will be interesting to humanize her as well. I know that Freyja and Freyr were the children of Njoror, but I have an idea in mind for why he claims Sigyn as his daughter. Fear not, readers! This writer has a plan. :)**

Disclaimer - I do not own Odin, Sigyn, Thor or Loki.

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><p>Prologue<p>

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><p>Darkness steals into the hall of Sessrúmnir, baring its teeth as if to swallow whole the unexpected presence which imposes itself upon the war-ravaged citadel. The footsteps draw closer, imposing reverberations of them boring into the burnt and blackened ground upon which floors forged in burnished glass of all colors once smiled upon a painted ceiling.<p>

All signs have life seem to have gone from the palace. All who held fast to the fraying threads of life had fled. Nothing, it would appear to the naked eye, the unobservant onlooker, has remained behind to mourn the ash-strewn grave of what had been a sanctuary of thriving soul, a home to those who have since passed from this scorched bastion and this world.

Once, it had been beautiful, filled to the seams of those great and intricate ceilings, to the brim of its airy corridors, with laughter and much commotion of those who dwelled there. Those are days delivered into the hands of time, it seems, for preservation. To be written into the memory of history, as even the gods must one day endure the end of all paths to be taken, the cessation of an existence once exalted by the lesser beings, the mortals of the earth. Here, the spirit of this very fear lingers, feeds upon the corpse of the palace like a plumed parasite.

All at once, when the presence and the footsteps fill up the emptiness that fire and soot and bloodshed have left in the wake of their careless destruction, the essence flees, spooked by the face which reveals itself to the moonlit patches and chase the skittish gloom. Threads of silver-white hair meet in a moonbeam tapestry upon the regal crown of forehead, beneath which perches a brow heavy with the ripeness of great knowledge and the creased burden of world-weary age. Upon one useless socket, a golden patch rests to conceal that which has been taken behind it. The other still holds its sight, the clouded pallor of heavy thought gathering within the clarity of blue. It is in but a moment that these features are rendered visible by the mottled dark given way to moon-painted luster. They disappear beneath the shroud of it once more, and all shadows of the ruined palace bow to the apparition of the Allfather.

From room to desecrated room he wanders, allowing no rush to urge him forward from his inspection of the ruined home of Njoror. His scrutiny passes over every scorched crevice, every charred remnant of what had once been a prized possession. He bent once and every great while during his inspection, taking into his hands the bare bones of the structure which had been whittled away by the ravenous jaws of unleashed flame. His deep red cape crumpled to the floor beneath him, the metallic scrape of armor against chain mail, and these are the only sounds which grace the dead corridors.

And then, as he moves closer to the epicenter of the once glorious and beautiful hall, a sound reaches his ears. The clamor of great sadness ,of mourning and agony of the deepest kind. He moves toward the sound, hastened by the urgency of such a manifestation, and discovers the source of it upon entering what had once been the great dining hall. A figure curls like a burning moth over the prone form of what seems, on first glance, a sleeping child. The Allfather knows too much and has witnessed too many centuries of war and bloodshed to know this is true.

_Njoror_. The name is like a whisper of truth breathing across the quiet of his thoughts. His emergence from the flame-crushed shadows is not heard. The weeping of the god does not allay as he cradles the blood-painted figure of his child. His arms are drenched in it, the color of her still-throbbing life, the life of his beloved daughter.

Njoror is no healer, no master of the arts of drawing out the sickness of crawling cold, of stitching back together the undoing of flesh's delicate seams. There is nothing he can do but mourn, but pray and hope that his supplications to Frigga are answered, but he has surrendered all hopes which belong to his foolish heart to the stars.

They watch over him, he knows, laugh softly to themselves at the futility of his sorrow. The gods, they know, are much too human in their heart of hearts. They are weak, they are spoiled by immortality, and they must be reminded too often that they do not harness all secrets of the universe. Perhaps this is why Sigyn lies unmoving, body refusing to push blood through the dormant veins, in her father's blood-stricken arms. Perhaps this is why the Allfather has come, drawn into this cavern of suffering by the will of fate herself. There are too many possibilities, all countless in number and in name, but chance can _never_ be one of them.

The god of wisdom lingers at the edge of the precipice, awaiting permission to take the plunge into the netherworld of timeless anguish. All must face this truth, that none are exempted from the laws of nature, and death is one of them. Njoror and Odin alike are aware of this fact. They simply never knew such regulations of the universe could fall upon them like rocks of the earth, bury them beneath the weight of cruel realization.

Njoror raises his head from the pale, unseeing gaze of his daughter. They meet with Odin's one good eye, pleading with it, asking it all of the questions which flood the unseen grottos of his being. A lapse of silence has wedged itself between them. The Allfather knows that it must not be him to speak first.

"Can you not help me once more, Allfather?" Comes the fluid voice, the terrible salt-wetness of tears slipping through it with the quick deftness of fingers. "Can you not save me from this cruel fate?"

Odin steps forward, accepting his desolate ally's invitation for interference. At Njoror's side he crumples like crushed gold and silver thread, kneeling before the corpse-like daughter and surveying the weakened ebb and flow of decaying spirit in her ashen face. The lips are silver-blue, their glisten of animation sucked dry being so near to the parched-desert pathways which enter Hel; they appear thirsty and bloodless to him.

His hand stretches out of its own accord, drawn to the crystalline forehead, a color forged in the milk-pale frailty of white. Upon it, he places his thumb, scraping the callused edge of it across her soft, taut skin.

"She lives," Odin proclaims, and Njoror's face shimmers with spare tears as his face rises to meet that of his King.

"It is not possible," Njoror cries out to him miserably. "She draws breath no more. No life beats within her. It pains me greatly to swear such a dreadful thing, but there is no denying truth where it lies. I fear I have done her great wrong by not accepting your many offers to hide her from this realm. I have failed her, wise Allfather. I have failed that which I love with all my heart."

"Trust in me, gentle Njoror," Odin replies softly, his scar-torn hands breaching the barrier of air between the two of them. "My healers can, and will, rescue her from the abyss. Permit me to take her to Asgard, where she will be safe, and I will raise her as my own. Never shall you fear for her again."

Njoror looks upon the face which inspires so much love and loyalty in him, stirs within his breast the glassy stillness of a restful sea. He could not bear to so selfishly keep her here, where danger lurks within the undercurrent of their lives, threatening her being as it has done so many a time before.

"It is my last offer, my dear friend," Odin warns him, voice rasping with severity. "I can no longer come to your aid if you should call for me. Asgard lingers on the brink of war. It is now that you must choose the fate of your dearest daughter."

Indecision grips the god of the sea, grips him like a tempest hurling its raw fury upon a fragile shore. He gathers his daughter tighter to his chest, hands unwilling to release her, but his heart cannot so easily refuse such an unprecedented offer of security.

With Odin, she should fear no harm, no threat, no omnipresence of death. Under the watchful gaze of the Allfather, Sigyn could flourish, bloom like a flower under the shaded protection of an ash tree. She could, and shall, be _free_.

"She lives, you say," Njoror questions.

Odin's eyes glow with the gentleness of sympathy, the rays of such brilliance extending to his torn friend in hope of instilling some comfort where none could be found. "Yes. But only if you should act quickly. Time is not on our side, I fear. She will soon be lost to us. You must decide. For the sake of your daughter, Njoror. For her sake."

"Yes," he utters, helplessly, numbly. His arms release her, if only a little. "Yes, for her sake."

And it is through the instrument of his hand that he can feel it now, the faint throb of a life fighting for its purchase on the world around it, slipping further, thrashing harder, holding fast to the light of this realm as to chase away the darkness of the next. Her heart beats beneath his palm. He can feel it now, feel what courses through the Allfather's awareness like the river of eternity beneath Yggdrasil. There is so little time. Another tear springs forth from the depths of his heart. But it is of hope. Hope for her, for the future that shall hold much for her.

His arms straighten from their bent form, entrusting the life of the body which they hold to Odin. "I beg of you, Allfather. Love her as you love your sons. Love her as if she were of your blood, of your kin, and I shall ask no more of you."

"I should give her nothing less," Odin replies. "Sigyn shall know of your sacrifice. I will no sooner let her forget than I should fail you, my friend."

A truce is made, a bargain struck. The near-lifeless figure of the daughter of the sea dangles in the Allfather's arms. No stirring of energy rises from the darkness of her form, no breathing life, no fervent dance of blood and restless heart entwined. Behind the retreating King of Asgard, Njoror falters, withers into the demons of the deep which spring forth from their cages to claim him. He melts into the earthen crust.

No more is heard of him, from him. He is delivered into the halls of memory, and sinks into the shadow of history.


End file.
